Everlasting Desire (2 page)

With a sigh of resignation, Megan closed the book and set it aside. Tomorrow was Saturday. She didn't have to work Sunday or Monday. If Shirl didn't have anything scheduled for Sunday night, maybe they could get together for dinner and a movie.

Later, lying in bed waiting for sleep to find her, Megan was irritated to find her thoughts again turning toward Rhys Costain. How did he spend his weekends? Was he buying all those new clothes to impress a new girlfriend? Or a new wife?

The thought of him with another woman was oddly disconcerting, and she shook it away. She didn't like him. Didn't like the way he made her feel, or the dark thoughts that flitted through her mind whenever he was near.

Flopping over onto her stomach, she pounded her fist against the pillow. She had been spending far too much time thinking about the man.

Yet even as she tried to convince herself that she didn't care if she ever saw him again, a little voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was a liar.

It was late Saturday night, his favorite night to hunt. Finding prey was never a problem, but it was always easier on the weekend, especially if you were hunting young males. They tended to party too much, drink too much, making them easy targets. But it was the tasty young women with them that Rhys generally preferred. Female blood tended to be warmer, sweeter on the tongue. And even when they were high, they smelled better than their male companions.

At midnight, Rhys lingered outside one of the more fashionable nightclubs, waiting. He intended to pay a visit to Shore's again, and it would be better for him, and for the woman, if he fed before he saw her. He didn't need to feed as often as he once had, but he was addicted to the hunt. He feared he was also becoming addicted to the woman. Megan. He had plucked her name from her mind on a recent visit. Megan DeLacey. He liked the sound of it, the way it rolled off his tongue, like poetry.

He liked her.

And he intended to have her.

All of her.

But not just yet.

Moments later, a man and a woman in their midtwenties emerged from the bar, their arms wrapped around each other as they staggered down the street.

Pushing away from the side of the building, Rhys followed the couple to the parking lot, his fangs extending as he quickened his pace.

Taking them was all too easy.

 

Megan was somewhat surprised when Rhys Costain arrived at Shore's half an hour or so before closing. Since he usually arrived just after midnight, she had assumed he wouldn't be coming, and had even managed to convince herself she was relieved, though her foolish heart had skipped a beat in nervous anticipation every time the door opened.

Each time a client had walked in, she had swallowed her disappointment and told herself she didn't care if ever she saw Rhys Costain again or not, even though she knew it was a lie. She had never been one to deceive herself, and it annoyed her to no end that she was doing it now. She didn't know the man. She wasn't even sure she liked him, so how to explain her illogical desire to see him again, or the way her heart seemed to skip a beat whenever he stepped through the door?

He was dressed all in black tonight. The color suited him perfectly. She watched him walk toward her, although
walk
didn't come close to describing the way he moved. He moved so lightly, so fluidly, she wondered if he studied ballet. Mikhail Baryshnikov meets Bela Lugosi, she thought, with a rueful grin.

“Good evening,” he murmured.

“Your closet must be full to bursting by now,” Megan remarked. “I've never known anyone to buy as many clothes as you do.”

He smiled a slow, crooked smile that made her insides turn to jelly. “Surely you realize that I only come here to see you.”

“A date would be less expensive,” she muttered, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Where had that idea come from? And why on earth had she voiced it aloud?

“I should like that very much,” he said. “Shall I pick you up after work?”

“I don't think so. You're a little too young for me.”

“I'm older than I look.”

“How old are you?” It was an impertinent thing to ask a customer, but her curiosity refused to be stilled. He looked young, except for his eyes.

“What does it matter? Age is only a number.”

“Well, you look to be about twenty, and since I'm pushing thirty, I'm afraid I'll have to pass.”

“Are you sure I can't change your mind? There's a little club not far from here where we can share a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and get to know each other better.”

Megan shook her head, though she couldn't help being flattered. He wasn't the first young guy who had asked her out, but, until now, she had never been tempted to accept. She found the idea of getting to know Rhys Costain quite intriguing, and scary as hell. “Thank you, but I don't think so. It's against company policy to date customers.”

“Indeed?”

Megan nodded, certain he knew she was lying.

“Then I guess I'll just have to buy something.” He glanced around the store, then moved toward a display of Italian driving gloves.

He picked out a pair of black leather ones by Forzieri that sold for one hundred and twenty dollars, a pair of dark brown Bentleys that cost over three hundred, and a pair of gray wool Cavallis that went for a mere eighty-nine bucks.

“New socks, too, I suppose,” he mused. Making his way to the far side of the store, he plucked a dozen pairs of black socks from the shelf, then added six pairs of dark brown, six pairs of navy, and three pairs of dark gray. “I guess that will do it for tonight,” he remarked, heading toward the checkout counter. “Have to save something for next time.”

Megan shook her head. “I can't imagine what else you could possibly need. Honestly, if you live to be a hundred, you'll never wear all the clothes you've bought in the last week!” She frowned when he burst out laughing. “Did I say something funny?”

“You have no idea.” He slid his credit card across the counter, signed the receipt, and bid her good night as he scooped up his bag.

He was still chuckling when he left the store.

As had become his habit, Rhys lingered in the shadows, watching her. What was there about Megan DeLacey that intrigued him so? True, she was lovely, but he had known a lot of lovely women in the last five hundred and twelve years. Maybe it was the way her eyes met his, a faint challenge in their depths. Maybe it was the tone of her voice, the smell of her skin, or the way her heart beat a little faster when he entered the store. Maybe it was the way she filled out that green wool dress, or the way her legs looked in those three-inch heels. Hell, maybe it was all of those things—or none of them.

Of one thing he was certain. She was afraid of him.

Smart girl, he mused, as he turned away from the window and strolled down the sidewalk, still thinking of his undeniable attraction to Megan.

He hadn't gone far when two young men clad in dark jeans and leather jackets, their heads covered with black knit caps pulled down to their eyebrows, hurried past him. They reeked of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. The added scents of potassium nitrate, sulphur, and carbon told him one of them carried a gun.

A quick brush of his mind against theirs and Rhys tossed his packages in a Dumpster and turned to follow them.

 

Megan was getting ready to tally the night's receipts when the front door opened, admitting a pair of young men. One look and she knew trouble had just entered the store. The taller of the two remained near the door, one hand tucked inside his faded black leather jacket.

A thin white scar bisected the left cheek of the other young man. He swaggered toward her, a smirk on his swarthy face.

“Let's make this short and sweet,” he said. “Just give me all the money in the drawer, and we'll be gone.”

Megan had always thought people who put their lives in danger to protect large sums of cash were idiots, and she had no intention of doing so now. Mr. Parker was well insured, and he could always earn more money. She had only one life.

She had just opened the cash drawer when Mr. Parker emerged from his office.

“What's this?” he exclaimed. “What's going on?”

“None of your business, old man,” Scar Face said. “So shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

“See here, you young punk!” Parker retorted indignantly. “Get the hell out of my shop before I call the police!”

“You ain't callin' nobody, old man.”

Parker's face turned a deep red as he pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. “We'll see about that!”

Megan let out a shriek as the thug near the entrance pulled a gun and leveled it at Mr. Parker.

What happened next happened so fast, Megan wasn't sure how much was real and how much she imagined. The front door opened, and a blur of black leather flew into the store seconds before the man fired the gun. In the space of a heartbeat, Mr. Parker had been pushed out of harm's way, the two would-be robbers were unconscious on the floor, and Rhys Costain stood in front of her, the robber's pistol in his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “How…? Where…?” She glanced at the front door, still swinging, at the two young men, both out cold. At Mr. Parker's ashen face. At the ominous red stain spreading down Rhys's left arm.

“I think you'd better sit down,” he said, slipping the pistol into his coat pocket. “You look a little pale. You, too, buddy.”

Mr. Parker looked offended at being called “buddy,” but he didn't argue. Sitting down in one of the store's padded chairs, he folded his arms over his chest, then, shoulders slumped, he cradled his head in his hands.

Megan looked up at Rhys. “I should call the police.” She started to touch his arm, then drew back. “And an ambulance.”

“I'm fine. Sit down before you faint.”

“I'm not going to faint!” she exclaimed. Her knees were as weak as a newborn kitten's, and she felt light-headed. “I'm not going to faint,” she repeated, and hoped it was true.

“Uh-huh.” Taking her lightly by the forearm, Rhys guided her to a chair and gently pushed her down. “Just rest a minute. These guys aren't going anywhere.”

Megan took several deep breaths. Had she been alone, she would have put her head between her knees and sobbed, but she wasn't alone. She could feel Rhys Costain watching her, knew he was just waiting for her to faint or go into hysterics like some spineless female.

“Hey.” His voice was soft and low as he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you're all right?”

His voice, his touch, went through her like an electric shock. Startled, she looked up, her earlier fear momentarily forgotten. Who was this man, that he should affect her so profoundly?

“I'm…I'm fine.” She glanced at the two hoodlums who had come in to rob the store. They were still sprawled on the floor. Were they dead? She was vaguely aware that Mr. Parker was on the phone.

A short time later, two police officers arrived. Polite, but all business, they took her statement, then Mr. Parker's, then Costain's. One of the officers offered to drive Rhys to the hospital, but he refused, insisting he wasn't badly hurt. Megan didn't believe him. Neither did the police, but when Rhys removed his coat and shirt, there was little more than a shallow gash on his arm.

“But there was so much blood…” Megan murmured, frowning.

“Just a flesh wound,” Rhys said with a grin.

When the police were satisfied that they had all the information they needed, they handcuffed the two suspects, who had regained consciousness as soon as the police finished interrogating Rhys.

“We'll be in touch, Mr. Parker,” one of the officers said, and then they marched the suspects out of the store.

Mr. Parker locked the front door behind the police, then walked back to where Rhys was standing. “Mr. Costain, I don't know how we can ever repay you.”

“No need.”

“Please,” Mr. Parker said, pulling his checkbook from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “I'd be happy to give you a reward.”

“If you insist,” Rhys said. “How about a new shirt?”

Mr. Parker blinked at him. “A new shirt? That's all you want?”

“That's it.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Parker fetched the most expensive shirt the store had to offer. Handing it to Rhys, he said, “How about a new coat? That one's ruined.”

Rhys shrugged. “Sure.” He didn't really need another coat, but what the hell? It would give him an excuse to see Megan again. “I'll stop in and look around next time I'm in the neighborhood.”

“Very well,” Mr. Parker said. “Megan, if you're ready, I'll take you home.”

“I'll see her home,” Rhys said.

Mr. Parker looked doubtful, but there was no arguing with Costain's expression or the implacable tone of his voice.

Taking Megan by the hand, Rhys lifted her to her feet. “Ready?”

“Yes, but…”

Before she quite knew how it happened, they were in her car, with Rhys behind the wheel.

“I can drive,” she protested.

“Not tonight.” He slid the key into the ignition.

Megan frowned. She didn't remember giving him her keys.

After a glance in the rearview mirror, he pulled away from the curb.

“What made you come back to the shop?” Megan asked. “And what happened to all the things you bought earlier?”

“I dropped them off at my place.”

“You must live close by.”

He shrugged. “Close enough.”

She gave him the directions to her house, then wrapped her arms around her middle, suddenly chilled. Nerves, she thought, but that was to be expected. She had just been through a traumatic experience. She and Mr. Parker could have been hurt, killed. If Rhys hadn't come along when he did…

She shook her head. He had been shot because of her. She couldn't explain it, but she knew in the deepest part of her being that he had come back to the store because she had been in danger, which begged the question: how had he known?

Rhys slid a glance in her direction. “You doing okay?”

She nodded, but she couldn't stop trembling. “You came back because of me, didn't you?”

He hesitated a moment before he said, “I was hoping to change your mind about that drink.”

“I could sure use one.” She didn't believe for a minute that was why he had returned to Shore's. She was tempted to pursue the matter, but she just didn't have the energy.

They drove in silence for a few moments, and then she frowned. “Where are we going?”

“You said you needed a drink. I know just the place.”

“It's late. I don't think…”

“One drink,” he said, “and I'll take you home.”

Looking at him, at the gleam in his fathomless dark eyes, she knew without a doubt that Rhys Costain was more dangerous than a dozen armed thugs.